Firestorm
by Enigma-Eggroll
Summary: To really understand what happened, it's necessary to go all the way back, long before the photo, the whole joke about capes, back before the ice and that little quirk with the lip, all the way back to how Darcy's hang up got this whole ball rolling in the first place.
1. Chapter 1

**As promised - this is a follow piece (in 2 parts) to The Space Between. **

* * *

It all started with ice.

Well, no, it actually started before that, but the ice was the damn tipping point, the auditory chunk of frozen what that ripped a huge hole in the prow of the ship.

But that's not just cart before the horse where this story's concerned – it's the last chapter before the first page has been read. No – to really understand what happened, it's necessary to go all the way back, long before the photo, the whole joke about capes, back before the ice and that goddamn little quirk with the lip, all the way back to how Darcy's hang up got this whole ball rolling in the first place.

**O-O**

To be fair, Darcy knows she's illogical, but some things are so ingrained in her psyche that it's almost impossible to realize when they're happening, let alone how to disarm the situation. There is no easy way to turn off twenty –four years of defense mechanisms.

_He loves me_, she tells herself over and over again. _He loves me, and this is something perfectly normal between two people who are in love_.

_Love._

_Making love._

If the former is a foreign concept, then the latter is downright alien. How does one 'make' love? Making assumes that the discreet participants know exactly what what's involved in the care and feeding of said emotion. Love to Darcy Lewis is fairy tale, the type of thing read about but never directly experienced. How the hell is she supposed to make something that, up until a few months ago, she didn't think existed? Is there a recipe somewhere, some magical, chemical or biological equation that transcends beyond inserting tab A into slot B, because that's all she really gets. Knocking boots? Fine. Bumping uglies? Been there, done that. Fucking, shagging, boinking, balling, boning…God, there are a million different ways for her to refer to or think about sex, and not a single one spooks her because it's _just sex_. Everyone involved goes in with the same expectation, and, if everything goes according to plan, and the whole A/B thing works, then wham, bam, thank you ma'am, everyone is happy in the end.

But that's sex, and sex is easy. Love – love is something much messier, something more mysterious than Einstein-Rosen bridges and bifrost and squeezing into black cat suits and always looking fabulous.

It's complicated enough when Darcy gets all caught up in her head, lost in the _will she won't she_ debate between the angel and devil perched on each shoulder. And then he comes swooping into the room – Steve Rogers with his gorgeous smile and brilliant blue eyes and a body DaVinci wishes he could've carved. It would be so much easier if Steve weren't such a _good_ guy – jerk, arrogant, stupid – Darcy knows how to deal with those, but not good, and definitely not respectful. Steve goes toe to toe with her, challenging and pushing intellectually, but then thanking her and holding the door open and always popping the cap off beers for her. Any woman would have fallen hard for that, but for Darcy? It's a lethal combination, sinking her faster than the Titanic. But that's the ice, and that's getting ahead of the whole story.

The reality is, while no one dares say boo to Darcy when Steve is around – their respect (or awe) of him is too great –the minute he's out of earshot, it's game on. They crack jokes and tease her endlessly, but that's okay, she knows how to handle herself. Darcy grew up sharper barbs than anything anyone could ever throw at her – the snide comments flick away like flies.

"That has to get old," Bruce says one day. With Jane otherwise occupied, Darcy has defected to his lab, happily filling the role of research assistant and overall grounded human presence in his lab. Outside of the 'core team' as Bruce calls it, most people are too afraid of 'The Other Guy' to volunteer willingly to work side by side with the brilliant scientist.

Darcy is the opposite.

She likes working with Bruce. She likes his honesty, she respects his intellect, and most importantly, she has a mad appreciation for his wicked sense of humor. Rare are the people who could 'out dry' her, and Bruce Banner is downright droll with a healthy dollop of caustic on top. While he's night and day different from Steve, he has a wonderful heart, and has become the closest thing to a best friend that Darcy's ever had.

That still doesn't stop her from holding things close. She likes Bruce, and she trusts him, but there are some things she just can't talk about.

Darcy doesn't look up from the notes she's transcribing. "Is this a t or an f?"

Bruce leans over the counter, pushing his glasses further up on his nose. "F. And I said that it has to get old the way everyone teases you."

"Meh, I just ignore it." She doesn't look up from the paper, her fingers flying effortlessly over the keyboard. "If I let everything everyone said get to me, I would've bitten it a long time ago. Dog eat dog world, Milkbone underwear, you know the drill."

She continues to type, hoping that the glib response is enough to slam the door closed, hard. For anyone else, it would work, but this is Bruce, and because he is such a good guy, he's not going to let her get off that easy. But maybe that's the problem, getting off is easy, it's always been easy, but now, when it's so damn complicated, she can't walk away, but she can't really move forward, either.

Darcy Lewis, chicken shit, at your service.

Bruce slips something out of his folder, a thick piece of shiny paper that's been crumpled and smoothed back out. Darcy knows what it is before it hits the counter – and immediately wishes she'd torn the picture up instead of just crushing it. Darcy found the 5x7 propped against her monitor this morning, a press shot of Steve in his "Cap Wear,' as she calls it. Someone has scrawled a message in garish red ink: _To Darcy, All My Love, Cap_ followed by oversized x's and o's.

"That's crumpled pretty violently for just ignoring it."

Instinctively, she slides the photo closer, trying to smooth out a crumpled edge. It's just a stupid practical joke, someone messing with her for fun. Honestly, if had _just_ been the note, she wouldn't have wasted time crumpling it up at all, hell she might have even tacked it up on the wall, laughing at how the joke backfired.

But whoever did it (and she suspects Barton's handiwork) hit below the belt with the picture.

"He's a lucky bastard," Bruce says, turning back to his microscope. "The camera loves him. Our pictures are all over the place, but he's head and shoulders above the rest of us. The bodega down the street actually has a picture of him up on the wall-"

"And all the teenage girls kiss it on the way out," Darcy says quickly. She'd gone in the same store two weeks ago, on a mission for something decadent and chocolaty, only to find two fifteen year olds with skinny legs and short shorts kissing their fingers and pressing it to the picture of _her_ boyfriend. Everywhere she turned, people were in love with Steve, idolizing him, lusting after him - beautiful women without any baggage.

She can't hold a candle to that.

"That poster actual has lipstick marks on it, you know." She can't look at Bruce, because she doesn't want to see the inevitable – the look of pity on his face. Poor Darcy, in love with the guy who's so far out of her league he's in another galaxy. Instead, she keeps her head down, her fingers flying across the keyboard, maybe even striking the enter key a little too hard.

_I don't blame them for wanting to touch him, _she thinks. _ I want to, too. I want to do a lot of things, actually, but I'm too chicken shit to try._

"Are you done abusing the keyboard?"

Darcy jerks her head up, ready with a smart-ass retort about where he can shove the keyboard, but the snarky comment dies before it can ever completely form. Bruce is standing with his hands braced on the counter, and he's looking at her the way that the Dad's in teenage movies do, all sympathetic and soft around the edges. It kills her to think that people are afraid of him, because they miss out on all the good underneath. Before that thought completely processes, she's jumped track, realizing that her own father has never looked at her like this. It should feel good, to know that someone cares that much, but it only highlights all the other failures, all the points where she hasn't been enough. Maybe she never will be – what if Steve finds he sea legs, gets comfortable in this new world, and realizes that she is only a crutch, that there is bigger and better out there.

"You need to give yourself my credit, Darcy." Bruce is looking at her, directly into her eyes, and it's like he can see all the way, deep inside, like he _gets_ her. "Those battlements of yours are high, and they do a good job of keeping the arrows out, but if you don't watch it, they'll keep the people out too."

"Funny," Darcy says, glancing away. "I didn't take you for a Sting fan."

He laughs softly and turns away. "Any man who can keep it up for six hours deserves a few props in my book."

"Can't you make a serum for that?" The joke does its job, killing the awkward tension that hovers in the lab. Bruce laughs, and goes back to his microscope, leaving Darcy with that cloying song stuck in her head along with the image of teenage girls pressing kisses against Steve's photographic copy.


	2. Chapter 2

"This is ridiculous."

"You're the one who said you're a superhero. Now get out here before I lose the light."

Steve's sitting with his back to the window, sun streaming in over him like a spotlight. He likes to sit on the floor when he draws, propping the sketchpad against his thigh for balance. Darcy sees it as completely counter-intuitive when there's a coffee table just feet away, but he claims that after years sketching whenever and wherever, using a table just doesn't feel right.

Who's she to argue with a gut feeling, when there are so many other things in the world to argue, like this whole ridiculous exercise? Steve's the one who refused to let her Chili Chick joke die, insisting that he wanted to turn her into a comic book character, complete with her own special suit. Darcy's first reaction had been to defer, using pop culture references like "No Capes!" and "Draw me like one of your French Girls," but they'd all obviously missed the mark. When Steve refused to give up – which is ironic, given that people usually say that about her, she finally relented, even going so far as to help him brainstorm a better name and suit details.

There might have even been some exaggerated attempts to derail the process, but it was all for naught. Steve is intent on creating this character. That's when Darcy decides to influence the process as much as she can. That way, if she can't control the speed of the train, she can at least guarantee that the humiliation upon arrival isn't _too_ painful.

"Just remember," she says, easing the bathroom door open. "No cleavage panels, no high heels, and absolutely-"

"No capes, I got it. Now stop talking, _Firestorm_, and get out here so I can do this."

The name is ridiculous, but it's a hell of a lot more superhero that Chili Chick, and given the non-offensive, non-sexist costume they've negotiated, it does seem more appropriate. Well, it did until she had to dig out an old riding habit, boots and all. At school, riding had been one of the few things she could do that was all her own, and for years it served as a respite. Even though Darcy's not ridden in ages, it's been near impossible to get rid of the gear – the slim ivory pants and the tall shiny black boots. There's a picture in her apartment, her and Muriel after a ride, decked out in full kit. All it took was one glimpse for Steve to formulate the idea, and once it had legs, there was no getting it back into the proverbial stable.

"Don't laugh at me," Darcy grumbles. She takes a deep breath and strides into the living room, painfully aware with each step, just how snug the riding pants are. She can see every figure flaw on vivid display in her imagination, and it only magnifies the insecurity that's been roiling inside her for days. At least the tails of the jacket covers up her ass, and draws some attention away from her thighs and hides her hips. Her breasts feel huge in the snug shirt, which, ironically, isn't anywhere near as tight as it used to be. These clothes used to be her armor, her way of feeling safe, but now, well, now it's completely different.

"I feel ridiculous," she says, knowing full well that she sounds like a twelve-year-old girl.

"I'm sure you're fine," he says, head bent over the giant sketchpad. "I was thinking I would-"

Steve finally looks up, and the words die. His lips part, just the tiniest bit, and it sends Darcy into a panic. Her cheeks burn, and there's a dangerous prickle at the back of her throat.

"What?" She's immediately on the defensive, ready to flee back to the bathroom. "I told you I look ridiculous!"

"No." He stands, dropping the sketchpad on the floor. With the sun shining directly in from behind him, it's impossible to make out anything but the simplest details - the line of his nose, his hair, bright gold in the warm light. What had Bruce said? The camera loves him. How could it not, when it has all this to work with.

"May I?" He asks, before adjusting the brim of her hat to sit low over her eyes. She can hear him swallow, and his hand hovers at her shoulder for just a second before pulling away. If she did have a superpower, mindreading would be top of the list, not far behind a super metabolism. Maybe then, she wouldn't be so worried about the size of her hips and wondering how hideous Steve thinks she looks.

"Put your foot up on this," he says, nudging an overturned crate toward her. "I'll turn it into a rock or a tree stump…"

"Or a dead body?" she says, picturing her own form splayed out underneath the black boot.

"Let your hand rest on your knee," he says, ignoring the jab. "And put the other one on your hip."

Darcy follows his direction, letting her left hand rest on her knee, and balling up a fist to rest on her hip.

"No, under the jacket." Steve circles his fingers around her wrist, and gently moves her hand, forcing the jacket back so that her fist rests against the soft cotton of her riding breeches.

_There go the hips_, she thinks. But he's not looking at her hips, or her face, his gaze is fixed somewhere lower, and now that her eyes have adjusted to the light, Darcy realizes just what he's looking at. It doesn't make everything better, but it lessens embarrassment just a bit, because Steve Rogers, under all that nice guy polish, is very much all about the boobs, and he's just gotten an eyeful of cleavage, and he can't look away.

"Buttoning up felt too stuffy," she says, explaining why the high white collar isn't fastened primly up beneath her chin. "Besides, I can't be a superhero and not show a little skin, right?"

He laughs, and scrapes his teeth across his lower lip. It's not his full lip, just the left side. The pressure forces the center out into a little U, the skin puckering against the force. It's boggling to Darcy how he can make a one eighty so fast, to flip from the buttoned up leader that inspires a nation to this nervous guy who gets flustered when confronted with a nice set of D cups.

_I wonder what the world would think if they could see this side of you, _she thinks. _Would they still idolize you, or would you lose your shine? Or even worse, would they fall that much more in love with you?_

Steve touches her, lightly trailing his thumb along her lower lip. Her red lipstick leaves a bright trail against his skin, which he doesn't try to rub away.

_Kiss me,_ she thinks. _Kiss me and make this all a little less painful._ _ Kiss me and tell me you love me, because I'm scared that one day you'll decide I'm not good enough, and I don't want this to go away._

"Stay right there," he says, walking backward into the sun.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says, hoping he hears confidence, because she sure as hell doesn't. "I'm just going to pretend you're naked so I'm not nervous."

**O-O**

Someone once told Darcy that posing for anything is hard work. She'd laughed at the time, chalking it up to some spoiled dilettante who had no idea of what the real world is like. Standing still while someone drew your picture hard? Please.

That was then, this is now.

She hasn't moved for two hours, even though Steve's gotten up more times than she can count. One trip to the bathroom, two goes with lights to cast more shadow, although why he needs that, she doesn't understand. He's drawing a comic book character, not sketching out something that will be the next Van Gogh. The worst has to be the three trips to the kitchen. One hundred and twenty minutes of posing, and at least ninety of them have been punctuated by the nonstop crunching of ice.

Captain America, it would seem, has an oddly Freudian fixation with ice. There's a case study to be had in there somewhere. But that's not the worst part, no, the worst part has been the utter silence. In between all of his motion, the ice crunching and the constant scrutiny, it's been silent. Darcy's tried talking a few times, asking questions or telling jokes, but it fell short when the only responses were grunts or halfhearted yeahs.

So Darcy's had one hundred and twenty minutes of watching him look at her. She's memorized the way he sweeps his hair off his forehead, his fingers raking through the front when he's concentrating. She's studied the way the muscles in his forearm flex, the long chords forming different shapes depending on the way he moves his wrist or bends his elbow. Worst of all, she's watched him suck on his lower lip, endlessly scraping his teeth across that same little stretch, forcing the other side to pucker out. God, she wants to grab him, hands on either side of his face, so that she can suck on that lip and bite it herself. It's all so ridiculous, she's vacillating between moments of pure and utter insecurity and complete lust. What if roles were switched and she were the one drawing him? Would Steve feel weird, being picked apart and studied? Would he look at her the same way she's doing now, noting all the quirky little habits she had. Would they be as endearing to him as they are to her?

When her legs start to ache, and the mental images about what exactly she'd like to do to that lip become too much, Darcy sighs dramatically to draw Steve's attention.

"Can I at least see?" she pleads, "And maybe move?"

When he looks up, there's a long silver smudge along his cheek. The entire side of his palm is covered in pencil lead. It only fuels her curiosity.

"Please," she says, dropping her hands to her sides. "I'm losing feeling in my legs."

Steve drops the sketchpad on the floor, and quickly downs the last chunk of ice in his glass. "I'm sorry, I just lose myself, especially when things are flowing. Do you want something to drink?"

"Yes, please." Darcy shakes her hands, trying to force the blood back into circulation. She's stiff and sore, and surprisingly tired. "And aspirin if you have it."

He scurries off to the kitchen, leaving the pad on the floor, face down. It's like a magnet, calling to her, pulling her in, and Darcy knows she should wait, but the curiosity, and to be honest, the anxiety, are too much to bear. She needs to see, but she's afraid, too. It feels like this is some monumental turning point, with whatever has been scratched on the cream-colored paper determining what will or come next. It's melodramatic, and Darcy knows that all these foibles and insecurities on her part are completely over the top, but she can't shut them off. She has to know how Steve sees her, and then, just maybe, she can let herself take that leap of faith.

"Oh fuck it," Darcy says, and walks quickly across the room. The pad is up, off the floor before she can think twice, and she's bracing herself for what comes next.

It takes a second to process, for there are multiple images on the page, and they're all her, but they're not her. The woman captured in silver and black is a mystery, all curves and grace and power, but mostly confidence. It's a two dimensional image, but somehow Steve has managed to make her pop off the page. The top hat hides her eyes, creating the illusion through shadow of a mask. Her lips, shaded with pencil, are dark and full, and one corner is pulled up, hinting at a smile or a sarcastic comment. So many words come to mind, power and seduction and knowledge and strength, but none of them encapsulate what is on the page.

"You're good," she says quietly.

"Only as good as what I have to work with." Steve's standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen with her beer and his glass of ice. "I could draw you for hours, you know."

She smiles, and looks back down at his drawings. "I wish you could do something with these, show someone, you know? You're really talented."

"No," he says, much more sharply than he ever responds. Her beer drops hastily on the table, and the pad removed from her hands just as fast.

"Why not?" Darcy says. "If you can make me look like that, my god, imagine what-"

"You do look like that," he says. "And it's frustrating as hell."

The expletive catches Darcy off guard, because Steve never curses, but it's just the first surprise. He catches her around the waist, pulling her in with more force than he's shows around her. His mouth is cold from all the ice, but Darcy can't process that, not when he's kissing her like this, and she can't think, she can't do anything but react. Steve's always been so restrained, even after their trip to Washington and all the things he's said. Something snapped, and that control is gone, replaced by this unexpected fire, which plows right through all her own fears and insecurities. There's no more room for second-guessing or worrying, or even thinking about what happens beyond peeling off the layers.

Her jacket flies somewhere across the room, and there's a moment of awkward balancing, Steve's hands firm on her hips as she struggles to toe her way out of her riding boots. Darcy has his t-shirt up and over his head, then pushes his hands out of the way, faster with the delicate pearl buttons on her blouse than he could ever be. They're both breathing hard, and everything is blindingly hot, her skin burning at every touch. Steve mumbles something against her neck, but it's lost in the rush.

They don't make it to the bedroom - they hardly even make it to the couch - toppling everything and anything that's in their wake. Darcy doesn't stop to worry about being embarrassed by the way she looks or what comes next, and she doesn't even really have to lead, but Steve's not really leading either, it's like some flawless dance where they both know exactly what to do, and there are no fits and starts with missed steps. The couch should be too little, but somehow, it's just right. One leg hanging off the side, one hand gripping the armrest for leverage, her free arm wrapped tight around Steve's shoulders, which are slick with sweat. He hesitates for just a moment, his breathing shallow, but when Darcy kisses him, sucking gently at the place where that little U had formed, he begins to move, and everything else ceases to exist.

Darcy loses herself in the moment, not caring what she says, or anything else for, that matter. There might be commands given, and at one point, she's pretty sure that Steve drops something that is either fudge or fuck, but it's all a blur. This isn't sex, although it feels an awful lot like it, but a million times more. No, this is infinitely more complex and engulfing and there's no way she's going to ever get enough.

She holds tight to him for a long time after, her hand pressed flat against his back so she can feel his heart begin to slow. Steve tries to pull away, to ease the burden of his weight, but she can't stand the idea of distance, not now. Probably not ever. He drops his head to her shoulder, and takes a long, deep breath, the heat searing her skin.

"You know that crunching ice is a sign of sexual frustration," she says. Her voice is husky, more so than usual.

"Looking at you like that for two hours would frustrate a saint," he says, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "Which is exactly why those drawings will never see the light of day."

"Now you know how I feel."

As soon as she says it, Darcy wants to grab the words and pull them back, but it's too late. There are no such thing as take backs.

"Is it too much to ask for you to never go out in public, and if you do, wear burlap sacks," Steve teases. His lips brush her shoulder, a slow trail of kisses that move across her collarbone, to her neck, and she's burning again, desperate for him to touch her.

"You don't strike me as the jealous type."

"Not jealous, just protective…and maybe a little bit possessive." He stretches his fingers wide, spanning the distance between her hipbone and ribcage. "I don't like the idea of people objectifying you."

Darcy drops her head back against the couch, laughing. "Less talk, more objectification, please. You consumed half a pound of ice, and I don't think we've quite made up for that level of frustration, yet."

He looks up at her, and there's that lip, pinched in again. "Stop that," she says, gently tugging at the little pucker that forms. "I get to do that."

Before Steve can object, she has his lower lip between her teeth, sucking gently at the soft skin. He doesn't need any more encouragement from there on out.

**O-O**

Sometime after midnight, Darcy slips out of bed. Steve's sprawled out, his arm dangling off the edge of the bed. She likes the way he looks without clothes, not just for the musculature, which is always a thing of beauty, but for the intimacy. No one else sees him like this. Just her.

All the hang-ups, all the fears and insecurities that have haunted her fall away. Let others long for the man they think they know. Let them press kisses to his picture and imagine what it would be like to make him smile. That's just an image, and she has the really thing – not the legend, but the man, who is kind and noble and sees the best in her, even when she can't see it for herself.

"You're staring," he mumbles, eyes still closed.

"I'm objectifying," she says. "Sue me."

"Come back to bed and I will."

"I need ice first, I'm dying." Darcy is thirsty, but she never craves ice. Suddenly, she's desperate for something cold and smooth, but she can't understand why.

"It's just going to melt," Steve says. His words are slightly slurred, the edges softened by sleep. "There's a reason I picked the name firestorm. Nothing cold can last around you."

"I thought it was for my great chili eating powers."

"Amongst other things, now hurry up."

She stands in the doorway for a minute, watching as his shoulders rise and fall. Then she slips away, in search of a chunk of ice that will quench the thirst that's been building up since before she can remember. It's a cheesy metaphor, and Darcy knows that, but it fits. Who's she to judge, she's just been turned into a superhero, but it's all good.

And it's been a hell of a long time coming.


End file.
